


The Good Girl

by AvaRosier



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Belligerent Tension Spilleth Over, Bondage, Co-workers, D/s, F/M, Future Fic, Spanking, Veronica tops Betty to give her a taste of bdsm, betty pov only, bughead focus and endgame, kink club, what's a little bdsm between friends?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2020-11-01 08:34:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20812184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaRosier/pseuds/AvaRosier
Summary: The walk back to her apartment building, with the early fall breeze cooling her flushed skin, even feels like something of a revelation for Betty: it's well after two in the morning on Saturday and instead of sleep, all she wants to do is open up her laptop and start doing research on BDSM and various other kinks. And then she could make up a list of pros and cons about taking Veronica up on her offer to get an invite toThe House of Bacchus. Betty is twenty-five years old now, and after the grind of finishing grad school and moving to a different town to start a new job, she's felt an increasing urge to do something bold, something that would shake her out of the rut she can feel her life falling into. Her very healthy imagination has been lacking for expression lately and maybe Veronica is right, what she really needs is to be tied up and fucked, and then some.By the time the loose gravel is crunching under her boots, Betty knows she's going to be joining Riverdale's premier kink club.Chapter 1: Betty/Veronica, wherein Veronica gives her friend a taste of BDSMChapters 2-4: Betty/Jughead, coworkers with belligerent sexual tension who run into each other at a kink club





	1. the awakening

Only two thoughts remain in Betty's mind:_ 'it's too much'_ battles with_ 'yes, please, don't stop!'_ for supremacy. They're all she has room for, the last grasp she has on conscious thought with the terrifying cliff of release looming before her, closer and closer and...

She fists the pillow underneath her head, pulling it in opposing directions as the dildo continues to rock into her in a steady rhythm that is maddeningly slow. The vibrator attachment at its base seems to oscillate in intensity, drawing the climb—and Betty's torture—out. Through the gauzy fabric of the scarf tied around her head that obscures her vision, Betty can make out the woman fucking her with the strap-on.

Veronica has her head thrown back, exposing the line of her throat and the pearl necklace there; her black, expertly blown-out hair is flipped to one side which permits Betty a hazy view of the small wobble of her breasts, darker-tipped as they are. Every so often, like right now, Veronica reaches over with one hand and pinches one of Betty's own nipples. This close to orgasm, the effect is immediate: a tiny burst of pain races throughout her nerve endings, right down to her clit and everything tightens onto a precipice. She can't help it; it's all she wants, to come. She isn't consciously aware of her hands leaving the pillow and clutching at Veronica's arms as her breathing hitches and her legs begin to shake from the effort of straining to push her hips upward.

Everything stops.

Well, not everything. Though the low pitch of the buzzing quietens some, it doesn't go away entirely. The vibrations are still there, just barely making contact with Betty's clit. Veronica had reached for the remote and only turned off  _ her _ vibrator, strategically nestled within the strap-on harness.

“ Noooo,” Betty whines, wriggling her hips in despair.

Veronica chastises her with a 'nuh-huh' that forces Betty's hips to still. That's the cruelty of it all—she's so close that just this butterfly's kiss from the vibrator could make her come...it just wouldn't be the earth-shaking orgasm she knows she was on the verge of.

“ Hands down at your sides,” comes the warning for the second time that night. “Those are the rules if you want to come, and you want to come, don't you, pet?”

Betty shudders, the dark swirl of emotion inside her surprising her with how much it pleases her to be Veronica's pet, her little plaything. This, them fucking, and them fucking like this, is a completely spontaneous thing. She lowers her hands until they lie loosely on either side of her head. She also relaxes her legs until they are bent and resting on the mattress. Now that she has surrendered, there are no more thoughts in her head.

“ Good girl,” Veronica coos. The buzz gets louder and then she's lazily rocking into Betty again. She accepts the torment of the vibrator coming and going, remaining pliant even as she works her inner muscles to rhythmically bear down on the dildo. It's hard and relentless, splitting her open, and she just takes it.

“ Such a good pet,” Veronica continues to murmur above her.

Betty shivers, gooseflesh breaking out all over her body. Then Veronica is grinding the base of the dildo against her, the vibrator pressing mercilessly against her clit and just like that, she's gone. Her climax hits her before her muscles can even tense in anticipation of it, rolling over her in waves where she had been defenseless against it. Hands close over her own, pinning her to the mattress. Betty can't form the sounds of Veronica's name, she can only whine as her limbs shake and pleasure ripples through her; all the while Veronica doesn't stop grinding their hips together. She's reaching her own peak and dragging Betty back up and over with her.

Betty strains, undulates, cries out loud enough that the entire building likely hears her, and rocks up against Veronica and that damned vibrator until she has squeezed out every last spasm of her orgasm and Veronica is reaching for the remote.

The only noise in the room is the harsh sound of their breathing, and Betty is so utterly wrung out she can do nothing but lie there limply, heart pounding in her ears, as Veronica pulls out and starts to busy herself with toy hygiene. Betty can hear her friend humming to herself as if she hasn't just flipped Betty's world on its axis. It's not just that she's never had sex with a woman, and it's not just that she's never had anyone make her come so hard before.

The whole d/s thing?  _ That's _ what's new. Betty rolls over onto her side, bringing her knees up a bit and pulling the makeshift blindfold off her head. Blinking against the dimness of the room, lit only by a single lamp in the corner, she watches Veronica finish wiping down the dildo and the vibrator attachments before setting it inside an open dresser drawer. A familiar stirring of something, like an itch so unreachable it resided within her bones, makes her wish someone was in the bed with her, their body curled against her own, running their fingers through Betty's hair. Maybe some cuddling...she bites her lip wistfully as her glimpse of Veronica's butt disappears beneath an ebony silk robe decorated with dark purple flowers.

But therein lies the problem, because Betty doesn't want to ask and get one of those pitying looks followed by a gentle rebuff. This isn't the start of something that involves dating. No, Veronica is her friend, a business-owner who's pretty much made it her mission to ensure Betty has a life outside of work, and who has a preternatural ability to separate sex from relationships. It's this ability Betty hopes will rub off on her, making her life flow easier.

She's come to the conclusion that she had been looking for love in all the wrong places...that too many of her previous partners equated her desire for intimacy and depth with her being "crazy" or "super clingy" or a sign that she was rushing towards the altar. Which she most definitely is not. It doesn’t help that people take one look at her and immediately categorize (and dismiss) her as the Good Girl. Or the Perfect Girl Next Door. 

She’s not the woman her mother tried to mold her into, but she’s still...Betty.

It wasn't until a drunken, teary, and frank conversation with her new friends that Veronica ended up taking her aside and asking whether she was willing to try a novel approach to getting what she needed. Which was how, earlier tonight, in swept Veronica to drag Betty to what she had mistakenly assumed would be the usual clubs to get drunk and dance away her woes. Instead, Veronica had brought Betty to the exclusive kink club she hadn't been aware even existed in Riverdale.

Not even wearing the expensive full coverage foundation had camouflaged the deep scarlet in her face. After they left, Veronica had proposed a way for Betty to have her proverbial cake and eat it too.

"Bettykins, have you ever considered bondage and submission?"

No, actually, she had not ever considered that before, certainly not for herself. And when Veronica took her to _The House of Bacchus_, all wide-eyed behind her mask, Betty had an epiphany. She may have resolutely sworn off love for the rest of her life, but watching the still-clothed woman and the nude, bound man be completely absorbed in their own world as she coaxed him into what looked like a thousand, tiny, shattering orgasms...Betty realized that maybe she could explore that kind of caring and connection without a serious partner.

She'd actually leaned over and whispered to Veronica, “Okay, you’re right: it's everything I never knew I wanted,” and gotten one of those knowing smirks in return.

And now...

And now Betty knows it is what she wants. She hadn't been brave enough to join in at the manor house, but Veronica had offered to give her a taste of what she'd seen. _"What's a little bondage between friends, after all?"_ As Betty moves her trembling legs over the side of the bed and reaches for her underwear, she wonders if there will be any strain on their friendship that would make it impossible to go back to the way they were before. She has her bra and dress back on by the time Veronica twists around and grins triumphantly, fingering the ties to her robe.

"So?"

"So?" Betty releases a breathless chuckle as she wrestles with her tights. She's managed to not rip this pair for the two years she's had it. "I see what you mean about the intensity of it, but I'm not sure how I'll ever have the guts to actually participate at the club without feeling like it's obvious to everyone that I'm a complete neophyte." 

Veronica rolls her eyes. "Whatever happened to your_ 'I'm going to be a bold new woman'_ speech? I seem to recall a line in there somewhere about not letting your life be dictated by what people think of you, but maybe that was brought on by the alcoholic mess of a Long Island Iced Tea you had just guzzled down."

"Words are easy until you'd actually have to do the thing?" She says, a tad facetiously. Veronica shoots her a barely amused look.

"Cute. But seriously, Betty, the club can be whatever you want it to be." Betty nods mutely as she finishes zipping up her boots and begins to shrug into her jacket. "But do let me know so I can tell Toni to extend you an official invite."

"I will." She loiters by the door for a moment before turning back to Veronica. "And thanks."

The walk back to her apartment building, with the early fall breeze cooling her flushed skin, even feels like something of a revelation for Betty: it's well after two in the morning on Saturday and instead of sleep, all she wants to do is open up her laptop and start doing research on BDSM and various other kinks. And then she could make up a list of pros and cons about taking Veronica up on her offer to get an invite to _The House of Bacchus_. Betty is twenty-five years old now, and after the grind of finishing grad school and moving to a different town to start a new job, she's felt an increasing urge to do something bold, something that would shake her out of the rut she can feel her life falling into. Her very healthy imagination has been lacking for expression lately and maybe Veronica is right, what she really needs is to be tied up and fucked, and then some.

By the time the loose gravel is crunching under her boots, Betty knows she's going to be joining Riverdale's premier kink club.


	2. the imagination

Betty watches the glint of mid-afternoon light off orange leaves outside her window and wishes she could just take off from work at two-thirty. It’s a lovely, crisp Friday in October, with a distant sun and clear blue skies; all she wants to do is get a pumpkin-spiced maple latte from the corner cafe and go home to start getting ready for tonight. At nine o’clock, she would be at _The House of Bacchus_. She's been scatterbrained all day, and only going to get worse now that time seems to have slowed to a crawl. Almost everyone else in the office has already headed home for the weekend.

_ Tap-tap-tap-taptaptap. _

Almost everyone. Not Jughead.

Jughead Jones is her opposite in many ways, particularly with the dark clothes and the rampant cynicism. They’re both junior writers and the _Sweetwater Standard_ doesn’t have the large floor space for everyone, hence how Betty the Lifestyles reporter (and sometimes copy editor) ended up sharing a tiny office with Jughead from the crime beat. Now they both split the local politics assignments while Trisha is out on maternity leave.

It had gone well at first—they had agreed to push their desks together in the center of the room and use the walls behind them for shelving and a whiteboard, citing a shared inability to concentrate if someone else could be looking over their shoulders. Their interactions had been wary—on his end—but Betty had been instantly smitten by Jughead’s brilliantly deductive mind and sardonic wit. True, he was slutty with semicolons, but hey, nobody’s perfect.

And then Betty had found out that Jughead’s birthday was at the start of the month. In true Betty fashion, she had whipped up half a dozen chocolate espresso cupcakes with salted caramel buttercream frosting and brought in some balloons from Party City, plus gone around the office with a card for everyone to sign. His reaction upon seeing it all on his desk? A rant.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Cooper: You want to prove you’re a great member of the team, the perfect girl next door? Fine. But I’m not one of your arts and crafts projects. I’m a loner from the wrong side of the tracks; I have no interest in fitting in.”

(Perfect. She hates that word, hates the way it continues to weigh her down even to this day.) 

“Message received, Jones," she'd bit out before proceeding to do her best to ignore his existence for the rest of the day. Who doesn’t like birthday parties? Betty Cooper Birthday Parties are _ the shit _.

Not that his ire had stopped him from devouring all the cupcakes. All. Of. Them.

Betty gazes across their desks at Jughead, who has swept his dark gray crown beanie off his head in frustration. The rings he’s wearing catch the light, bringing her attention to how long his fingers are, and his simple bracelets highlight the slightly corded muscles of his forearms. It’s become painfully clear to her over the past two months and then some that he thinks she’s out for the 2.5-kids-white-picket-fences-perfect-family, though she’d like to think that by now she’s disabused him of the notion that she’s naive and blinded by her privilege. (His squawk of outrage the first time she returned his article covered in red marks and incisive comments about adjusting for his own biases continues to give her joy to this day.)

It’s her mother’s fault: when Alice Cooper had lived and worked in Riverdale as a reporter, she was often unfairly prejudiced against the Southside and the Southside Serpents gang in particular. Jughead has never made any bones about his past in the gang and his articles often contain scathing critiques of the power imbalance in town.

Betty made ripples with her first solo-byline at SWS, pointing out the inherent issues with the new municipal ordinance to tear down Pickens Park and redevelop the land for office buildings, instead of simply renaming it after someone who wasn’t a shitty mass-murderer and empowering community projects to help keep it clean and free of drugs. Because she knew exactly what page and section her story was continued on, she had recognized when Jughead was reading it in their office. That was a lot of nonsense she’d typed under the guise of appearing busy while studying his reaction out of the corner of her eyes. 

He’d furrowed his brows before glancing up at her over the top of the newspaper with something akin to...respect? “You’re full of surprises, Cooper.”

Good thing he doesn’t know about her side hustle as a private investigator and the short bobbed black wig sitting in her bathroom cabinet at home. Or about _The House of Bacchus_.

Jughead exhales sharply, muttering something indecipherable to himself before reaching down and pulling his suspenders back up over his shoulders with an audible snap. Fortunately not audible? Betty’s whimper. Despite his shallow assumptions about her, the torch she carries for him remains pathetically bright. And that’s not even taking into account the glasses he’s taken to wearing lately so he doesn’t ruin his eyesight squinting at his laptop screen: the ones with dark frames. _ Spank Me Professor _ glasses, she calls them.

Betty is deeply ashamed of how many filthy fantasies she’s had that involve Jughead and those glasses. 

So, no, she doesn't hate Jughead, despite his obvious disaffection for her; she just finds everything about him extremely frustrating. Like now, when his typing is obnoxiously reminding her that she's still waiting on Kevin to finish his weekend preview and send it to Betty so she can edit it for tomorrow’s edition. Her own article would be on the third page this time.

Ada Mulwray was the CEO of the formerly-named Lucky In Love, the premier matchmaking agency in Riverdale. Alas the economy in late-stage capitalism being what it was, Mulwray had decided to merge with another company run by Penny Peabody, move into a different building, and the co-CEOs have renamed it Luck/UnLuck.

Because the company Mulwray merged with? A divorce agency.

Betty finds the whole thing incredibly perverse. What does it say to clients when you're providing them with matches they could potentially fall in love with, and maybe marry, but if it falls apart the company will still profit off the divorce...and then profit off re-matching them with someone new?

When she let him read her first draft, Jughead, the self-avowed born cynic, loved it. “Even removing redundancies, they've doubled their client pool—so I'd think that says the company is a reflection of the ills in society, not the perpetrator of them, Cooper.” And then he put the toothpick back between his teeth, while sitting _ on _ his desk, at _ work _.

Betty'd had to fight the urge to reach over and yank that toothpick out of his mouth and snap it in half. But then she would’ve still been stuck with the mouth that had no excuse for being that pretty.

“I don't know what it says about me that I'm the only person you're not always smiling at.” She blinks only to realize that Jughead has noticed her staring—no, _ glaring _—at him.

“That sounds like a _ you _ problem,” she says waspishly.

“See!” Jughead snaps his fingers. “You have no problem telling me off, but you let everyone else walk all over you. How many times have you given Kevin a deadline extension in the last month alone?”

Betty sighs and begins unnecessarily straightening the papers on her desk. “What is this particular non sequitur about now?”

“You're scowling at me while I work. Your misdirected irritation isn't going to distract me, you should know that by now, Cooper.”

“And in which direction should I be aiming my irritation, Mr. Jones?”

“Kevin.”

“Maybe I’m just looking forward to the weekend, did you even consider that?”

“Finally get that hot date with Archie? Don’t tell me: dinner at Salvatore’s, followed by a movie...nothing too high-brow or a chick-flick, of course, then a moonlit stroll hand-in-hand along Sweetwater River?” Jughead asks acerbically. Is it her imagination or does he sound almost jealous? 

Oh, who is she kidding, it’s definitely her imagination.

Betty can’t even defend herself against the insinuation about Archie, a fellow reporter who covers the sports desk. It's true that when she first started at SWS, she had found his attention flattering. However, it hadn’t taken long for her to realize their ideas of interesting conversational topics didn’t match up. Maybe once upon a time, he would’ve been the kind of guy she became infatuated with, but not anymore.

Archie has moved on. Clearly, Jughead hasn’t.

She rolls her eyes at him. “You couldn’t be more wrong, _Forsythe_.” 

Jughead’s mouth drops open in shock before a slow, devilish smile grows on his face. He leans forward in the chair, bracing his forearms on the desk. “And who told you my real name, _Elizabeth _?” He asks her, his voice low and dangerously smooth. The sound rumbles over her skin and settles against her clit.

“Nobody told me, I went and looked for myself.” She had her reasons for breaking into HR's files.

“Did you?” He’s still grinning at her, but his eyes are sharp and assessing. She likes the way it feels to have him looking at her like this, like he approves. Her face is burning, her body electrified.

“What are you thinking about now?”

_ Stu__ffing that beanie in my mouth as a gag, then bending over your lap _. 

Her laptop chimes with a new email.

“Kevin.”


	3. the seduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was beta'd by the magnificent arsenicpanda, who is a superheroine!

The unhurried  _ tap-tap-tap _ of her heels over wet cobblestone echoes in the narrow street. Over the acrid scent of car exhaust, the air is heavy with rain from an earlier storm. A chilly breeze cuts through the night to caress her bare legs, making Betty all the more aware of how little she wears underneath her trench coat. At last, she spots the stone archway with the unlocked gate, the kind you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it. As she steps under the arch, there is a shimmer as if she’s entering a separate reality altogether.

Maybe she is.

Betty continues around the curve to where the massive manor stands. _The House of Bacchus_ is first and foremost a pleasure establishment: at two centuries old it has three floors, wrought-iron wraparound balconies, and vines that curl up one side of the dark stone. A man in a black mesh shirt and a white mask stands just inside the door, half shrouded in the darkness; his eyes gleam in the low light.

“Invitation?” 

When he says ‘invitation’, what he really means is her membership card. Betty hands him the card she received courtesy of Veronica and watches him scrutinize it for a moment as she wonders whether an upscale kink club expects people to sneak in with a forgery. But then again, an elite sex club means prominent members and the potential for blackmail galore. The bouncer waves her through without another word, and she makes a quick stop at the counter to hand over her coat, leaving her to stand there nearly naked. 

The shirred black dress technically covers her from chest to knee, but for the fact that it is completely sheer and she is wearing nothing underneath—not even panties. It also has narrow bands that serves as sleeves, which fall off her shoulders. Stiffer black lines denote the structure of the top half, almost like a corset, separating and lifting her breasts. She has some very nice cleavage if she says so herself. This is the perfect blend of modesty and daring for Betty, and she feels incredibly sensual with her nipples and trimmed bush visible.

There's also a black choker around her throat, matching closed-toe heels, a small purse to hold a few essentials, and her own mask, made with forest green velvet and silver filigree. She’s also wearing the black wig for an extra layer of anonymity...and courage. In spite of it not being the first time Betty has come here, she still feels the tight sensation of nervousness in her chest.

She selects the bracelets she will wear around her wrist, differently colored to indicate sexuality and specific kinks. Hers are midnight blue, lavender, and scarlet: Seeking Men, Submission, and Impact Play. Why waste time asking and answering the same questions only to find out the person isn’t into what you’re looking for?

Just past the reception area is the bar—once the sitting room of the house but later renovated—decked out in a tasteful red and black scheme. Most of the other guests are wearing lingerie or the upscale equivalent of pajamas, though there is the unmistakable presence of leather and PVC here and there. She thinks she recognizes a few people despite the masks, but doesn’t bother going up to say hi. 

Stepping up to the bar, Betty orders an Old Fashioned and waits for her membership card to be swiped. The club only permits you up to two drinks a night, which your credit card on file will be billed for, and no more than one in the space of an hour. Alcohol may be useful for relaxing inhibitions, but too much raises the risk of impaired judgement...not the sort of thing you want to happen in an environment highly dependent on an exchange of trust.

Drink in hand, she takes a sip and relishes in the sweetness, the bite of orange, and the almost caramel-flavored burn as it slides down her throat before turning to survey the room. The lights are dim, though there are just enough false candles to add a warmer glow. Bodies mill around, talking in hushed tones as they lick their lips and stroke fingers and upper arms in anticipation of where the night might lead. Anything further than touches or kisses can be found through the black curtain blocking the bar from the rest of the floor and the stairs. There  _ is _ a basement dungeon, but Betty isn’t into the more hardcore scenes, so she heads through the curtain towards one of the other rooms.

There are staff members posted at intermittent points throughout the building to make sure the rules of behavior, hygiene, and consent are observed. Betty spots one against the back wall of what had likely been the dining room, standing inscrutable behind their uniform white masks like sentinels. There are tall tables set along the walls, full of masked patrons, as well as several low sofas and chairs clustered around the center of the— _ oh _ . 

She isn’t expecting it, that’s her excuse; years of honing her observational skills to check out the fringes first means she doesn’t spot the woman hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room. Betty’s nervousness is forgotten as she steps closer, mouth drifting open. The woman is a darker shade of blonde than Betty, and she dangles facedown four-and-a-half feet off the floor, her body contorted by lots of bright purple ropes that keep her arms behind her back and her legs bent until her heels touched her ass. Nude as she is, the cleft between her thighs is wide open for all to see as the short-haired woman standing before her spins her slowly. 

What would it be like to be suspended like that? To have people come up and touch you, tugging on a nipple or teasing your clit while you can’t do anything but take it? Your mind crying out to move away, to move closer for  _ more, more, more _ ...until all the noise disappears and there’s nothing but your gratitude for whatever sweet torture the hands choose to bestow upon you. 

This is nothing like watching free porn clips on her laptop in her apartment.

The sound of someone clearing their throat behind her has her startling and turning around, breaking the spell. When she catches sight of the man leaning against the wall, a frisson of utter  _ want  _ runs down her spine, followed closely behind by sheer horror. She  _ knows _ those suspenders. She  _ knows _ those thick rings on long fingers, although the buckled leather cuff is something new. 

It’s none other than Jughead Jones standing there in a pair of dark jeans that hugged his narrow hips and thighs before being tucked into black combat boots. A simple black mask covers the top half of his face. He wears nothing else.

“Evening, Betty. Come here often?” he asks, the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

She considers lying. But while she’s not exactly wearing her heart on her sleeve here, the colored bracelets proclaim a different kind of truth.

She also considers turning tail and running as fast as these heels will allow her. But there would be no outrunning Jughead at work, especially now that he’s seen her body on display.

“Maybe I do.” Betty moves over to his tall table by the wall and sets her drink down. His glass looks like cola mixed with something, probably bourbon, if she has to guess.

“Bullshit. I would’ve seen you before tonight.” He mirrors her posture, leaning his forearms onto the table. Behind the mask, his eyes study her shrewdly. 

“I suppose you come here often enough to know, then?”

His mouth twists, hesitating. “Does that shock you?”

“Well,  _ yes _ ,” she sputters. “I don’t exactly look at the people in the office and wonder what kind of sex they’re into—”

“I do.”

“—let alone whether they frequent kink clubs.” Betty can’t seem to process this. She may have a dumb ol’ crush on Jughead, but she’s not sure how to feel about him knowing these kinds of details about her when they’re nothing more than coworkers. “How on earth did you recognize me anyways?”

“If you must know, it was the legs. I’d recognize those legs anywhere.” She’s blushing, she must be! A smile threatens to tug at the corner of her lips, and Betty tries to not let her  _ preening _ show. She runs too many miles every week for people to not appreciate her legs.

Jughead takes a sip of his cocktail, and her eyes alight on the bracelets on his left wrist. Emerald green, royal purple, and sky blue: Seeking Women, Domination, and Rope Play. 

“So you’re a dom?”

“In a sense—I prefer a two-way street when it comes to my kink.”

“I thought the point of dominance or submission in a scene is for there to be a clear power differential. You don’t see it like that?”

“Maybe that’s how many people want to see it, but to me, dominance and submission isn’t just about a dominant exerting their will on a submissive...” he reaches over and plucks the maraschino cherry out of her drink and closes his teeth around the plump fruit, yanking on the stem. “It can also be a conversation.”

A fluttering begins in her belly.  _ Say something, Elizabeth Anne Cooper, before he thinks you’re out of your depth! _ “To answer your earlier question—this is actually my second time here.”

“And how are you finding  _ The House of Bacchus  _ so far?”

“The first time was very...enlightening. I came as the guest of another member—a friend.” Betty knows exactly why she wants to make sure Jughead knows Veronica is just a friend. 

“Good to hear. What are your hopes for tonight, then?” 

She can’t seem to stop glancing down from his eyes and lips to his bare chest or the sleek muscles in his biceps. “Practical experience.”

His thumb brushes lightly against the lavender bracelet, then the scarlet one. “Have you ever seen a spanking bench in use, Betty?”

“Not in person, no.”

“Shall we head upstairs and check it out?”

Her mouth takes over when her brain doesn’t seem to be working any more. “Sure.”

Jughead follows her up the stairs, far enough behind that he’s sure to be getting an eyeful of her butt through the gauzy material of her dress. She exaggerates the sway of her hips just a little. When they reach the second floor, his hand on the small of her back guides her into a room on the right. Half a dozen other patrons are in there, some standing, some sitting on furniture. He takes the lead, moving them towards an empty spot on the couch and he sits down, clearly indicating she should sit on his lap. Betty doesn’t let herself think, she just does it. 

There’s something illicit about this small contact, like they’ve crossed a boundary their earlier conversation hadn’t: his shoulder against her side where she’s curved against the armrest of the couch, the rise and fall of his chest that barely touches her back when he breathes, and the way she’s intensely aware of how little clothing there is between their bodies.

Once settled, Betty follows everyone’s line of sight to the brunette woman strapped down on the spanking bench. Her hands and legs are bound, the two straps going over her back keeping her bent and her buttocks on display. A man stands near her, a double-sided riding crop in his hands. The soft-purple side caresses the woman’s upper thighs and she tries to arch into it. He moves lightning quick. THWACK! She gasps and bucks against her restraints as the leather side rains half a dozen blows over her ass. She’s left trembling in the aftermath, her skin starting to show bright red marks.

Betty takes in a shuddering breath, squirming in Jughead’s lap. It’s all a bit too much, the stimulus of so many erotic experiences on display is making her head spin. A hand rests possessively on her hip, the heat of it through thin material anchoring her in the present. She feels him lean closer to murmur near her ear.

“You doing okay? We can leave and get some air.” She nods to the question, shakes her head ‘no’ emphatically to the proposal. 

THWACK! The dom carefully aims the crop at the brunette’s cloth covered pussy. Betty swears she feels its echo on her own pussy, and she’s electrifyingly aware of how close Jughead is, how he must be observing her every reaction. Could he feel how wet she was on his thigh? Warm breath tickles her ear. 

“Has anyone spanked you before?”

Forming words requires too much effort, and Betty is still hypnotized by the scene before her eyes. She shakes her head again and takes a sip of her nearly forgotten drink. The ice cubes have melted, making it more watery than she prefers. She places the glass on the side table next to Jughead’s.

The dom has set the crop aside and is running a hand across the rack of various impact play instruments before he selects a feather tickler. The sub cannot move as it moves lightly over her body, tormenting her.

Compounding it all, Jughead won’t stop touching her. One hand teases the skin of her thigh through her dress; the other, her neck, brushing the wig behind one ear. The bit of alcohol she’s consumed has hit her bloodstream, going to her head. Uncaring about being obvious, she wiggles her ass into his groin and feels the hardness there.

Hands grip her hips, stilling their motion, but it’s the rumble of a growl that makes her stop. “Tease,” he hisses behind her. 

Betty turns her head until her chin is over her shoulder, and  _ smirks _ at Jughead. “What else do you want to show me?”

Even with the mask on, she recognizes the lopsided grin on his face and the way his eyes light up with excitement; he gets the same look on his face when a story is afoot and he’s dug up a new thread for his murder board.

They head out into the hallway and into a spacious area.  People sit on the couch cushions, some kissing, some fucking, but most of them playing voyeur to the show being put on atop the ottoman. Two men, one with curly blond hair, the other with darker skin and closely shorn bleached hair, are engaged in one of the most beautiful and harmonious renditions of the sixty-nine Betty has ever seen.

There, in an unlit corner of the club, Betty sits on a tabletop with her dress ruched up, Jughead standing between her spread legs, his thumbs stroking higher up the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. Nothing but two inches separate her pussy from his touch. 

She is going to fuck Jughead Jones tonight.

“Is this what you thought about me?” She gestures to her outfit. “When you first met me and wondered about what kind of sex I must be into...is this what you imagined?”

“When I first met you?” He sighed. “No.”

He’s not telling her anything she hadn’t already suspected, sort of, but it’s hard not to let bitterness edge her tone. “What, did you assume I was just a good girl who guiltily fingered herself in the dark and held out for candles, rose petals, and a ring as if that would make her more likely to come?” she asks, reaching out to run her hands over his biceps.

“I’ll grant you’re not that far off the mark, and I bet you’re loving that right now—”

“Validation is helluva drug. But now that you’ve seen me in this getup, you’ve realized that I am, in fact, a bad girl?” her voice has taken on a mocking lilt, and she's acutely aware of the thick waxy gloss of her red lipstick as she speaks.

There is a sudden tension in Jughead’s body. “On that account, you couldn’t be more wrong, Elizabeth.” She is definitely developing a Pavlovian response to him using her full name, especially the way he says it. His thumbs slide even higher, and massage the thin band of skin along the juncture of her thighs and pelvis. “Maybe I allowed your family’s reputation to precede you, but do you know what I noticed after the first few weeks? How  _ eager _ you were to please.”

Betty swallows hard, but doesn’t dare look away as he continues. 

“Can you guess what I imagined then? I wondered if you’d be as eager to please me, to get down on your knees and suck me off, and, if you were a good girl, then maybe I’d fuck you and let you come.”

The provocative mental image has her eyes drifting shut, weak with desire. She thinks of college, she thinks of the fumbling loser she’d matched with on Tinder who thought he’d hit the jackpot when she made it clear she only wanted to practice her blow job skills on him until her technique improved so she could impress the guy she liked if she ever managed to get his attention.

“Is that how you dom?” She tests him, curling her fingers around his suspenders and pulling until the elastic is stretched taut. “I thought you liked your kink to be  _ a conversation _ .” He shakes his head at her in warning, but her sudden urge to be bratty can't be stopped.

SNAP!

The look in his eyes promises she will pay for that. “Would you like to find out? There are a few, more private rooms in the attic, I know at least one hasn’t been reserved for the night.”

There’s nothing else she wants, but still, insecurity rears its ugly head. She has her fantasies, but Jughead is much more experienced, and, while he’s not a stranger and they’ve developed a rapport and a sense of trust, she still hates the thought of doing something wrong or not being enough for him…

“I—”

He scoffs, a trace of frustration showing in the downturn of his mouth. “It’s  _ me _ : Jughead. The one person at work you have no problem standing up to. That doesn’t fucking change now:  _ tell me what you want, Betty _ .”

And just like that, she can be brave and go after what she wants. She raises her chin up at him challengingly. 

“Maybe I want you to spank me, Jughead. Maybe I want you to tie me to a bed and fuck me until I forget my own name.”

  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. the surrender

In the twenty minutes between making such a bold declaration and eagerly helping Jughead tie her down to the bed in the small playroom, Betty had run through a gamut of emotions. Excitement, nerves, wondering if it would be a good or bad thing having sex—let alone _ kinky sex _—with her coworker.

Even as the thought pops into her head, she knows that deep down, she wouldn’t have been able to do this tonight with a stranger.

“Do you still want this?” Jughead asks her, his voice low and even, the length of his body hard and heavy as it lies partially on top of hers. The blue of his eyes are piercing as he studies her curiously, and intently. She’s now all the more aware of her lack of a mask and wig, her messy blonde hair sprawled over the easy-clean mattress topper.

Finding her voice, she says: “yes.” 

“Are they too tight?” He frowns in concern, the thumb with a silver ring rubbing along her wrists where the soft leather cuffs are connected by a short chain, the lavender bracelet peeking out from underneath one. There are identical cuffs on her ankles, but those aren’t connected to the bed. That’s alright, just knowing they’re there is enough. 

“Mmm-mnh,” she shakes her head in the negative. She appreciates that he’s making sure she’s comfortable.

“What’s your safe word, Betty?” Don’t think she hasn’t noticed how he uses her name. Betty; not Cooper, not Elizabeth. Because right in this moment before they really start playing, they are Betty and Jughead, and he is not Jones, or Forsythe.

Beyond the dark sprawl of his hair, the play room is small and tastefully decorated in reds and black. A small frisson of excitement trails down her spine as Betty tries to process the enormity of the moment. 

“Em dash,” she states with finality. That gets her a huff of laughter from him.

Jughead moves his right hand to her lower stomach, the thin, sheer material of her dress doing very little to shield her from the warmth and sensation of his skin. It’s simultaneously too little and too much. The hand starts to move and her thighs clench, but he skirts around the one place she really, really wants him to touch and instead a set of callused fingers curl around her knee. 

“Why don’t you spread your legs for me?”

Betty is already so stimulated, so aroused, but it still takes her a moment to be bold enough to overcome her shyness and part her thighs for him. She wonders what Jughead sees when he looks down at her—does she look as wanton as she feels right now?

“You’re dripping wet,” he says this so matter-of-factly. “Should I touch your cunt?” He muses, tracing the neat waxed line where her leg meets her pubic hair.

Growing desperate for want of some friction, Betty tries to close her legs so she can rub her thighs together and get some small satisfaction from that, but Jughead pushes her limbs apart again. She finds it equal parts comforting and frustrating.

“Tsk, tsk, naughty girl,” he croons moving his weight onto her right leg. “How am I supposed to know where to touch you if you don't tell me?”

Now his deft fingers are lightly plucking at tufts of short blonde hair, teasing her. “Pl-” she inhales sharply and tries again. “Please touch my pussy, please—“

“Well, since the lady asks so nicely...” Jughead strokes the back of two fingers over her labia, the hard ridge of his rings bumping against the sensitive hood of her clit. 

“_ Yesss _...” she groans, body tensing against the leather binds. She likes pulling against them, not to try to escape but because the effort heightens her arousal.

Then two fingers are slide up into her, filling her, and Betty clenches around them in surprise, bucking her hips to try to make them move. To no avail, Jughead holds them completely still.

“Patience,” he scolds, like the utter asshole he is.

She wraps her legs around his hips, trapping him there. Jughead doesn't try to break out of her hold, but he does remove his hands from her pussy, making her whine.

“You're going to have to choose to let go if you want this to continue.” He trails infuriatingly gentle kisses down her neck and chest, over the swell of her breasts, then back up along the line of her jaw. Betty twists her head to the side to shake him free and kisses him hard, biting his lip before he pulls away.

“No, Elizabeth.” Jughead pushes her hips down so she can't grind against him. “The only way you're going to get to come is after you surrender, but now the price is raised. I'll have to spank you first.”

“_ Fine _.”

Keeping her eyes trained on his, Betty unwinds her legs, giving him a good glimpse of her pussy, feeling at once mulish and defiant. 

The mattress bounces underneath her as he rolls off the bed and unsnaps her wrist cuffs from the headboard before dropping himself into the chair in the corner. Jughead braces his legs apart, both feet solidly on the floor; when he pats his thighs, she shivers. Was it possible to want something too much? 

“Hey,” he interrupts her over-analyzing. “Don't do this because you have to always be perfect or obedient. Do this because you choose to let go.”

Nodding, Betty stands up next to the bed and, not giving herself a chance to talk herself out of the decision, she unzips and then wriggles her way out of the sheer dress and leaves it there on the floor, pooled around her heels. His eyes are on her, half-lidded as he watches her approach. 

For a long time, starting in her teens, she had struggled with feeling confident in her own skin. That she would sometimes hide her body or let self-consciousness get in the way of her pleasure with sexual partners finally made her realize in this very moment that maybe who her partners were had something to do with it. Because when Jughead Jones is the one giving her the slow look-over, she only feels bold and sexy.

She goes carefully, lowering herself over one thigh until her palms and knees are braced against the carpet. His beanie isn't around to serve as a gag, but her fantasy is still becoming reality. Her nerve endings are electrifyingly aware, her muscles tensed in anticipation as he shifts beneath her, and he hasn’t even touched her yet.

One hand rests on the middle of her bare back and she shivers, enjoying the sensation of being naked when he’s not.

Jughead gives her no warning before he lifts his right hand and brings it across her left cheek with a loud _ smack _! Betty gasps and jerks in surprise but doesn’t try to escape his lap, let alone utter her safe word. He does it again, testing the strength of his hand against the fleshy part of her bottom and upper thighs. The vibrations travel directly to her clit and she squirms.

After a dozen or so smacks—some hard, some soft—he reaches under with his left hand to cup one breast, twisting the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. A throaty moan escapes her throat. Her hindbrain is taking over and Betty doesn’t want to resist it, not when she’s enjoying what Jughead is doing to her on such an atavistic level.

_ SMACK. _

_ SMACK. _

This time, when he rains down a series of blows, her cries are loud as they echo through the room and below the sound of his hand making contact with her ass, there is the harsh sound of his breathing. Betty twists and squirms in his lap, begging and pleading but not telling him to stop. The motion forces her hip to rub against his hardening cock.

He rests his palm against the aching curve of her right cheek, the metal buckle on his cuff cold where it touches her warmed flesh. Between this and the hand still cupping her breast, it leaves Betty intensely aware of how she pants and quivers.

“Shh,” he croons, “you did so good, Elizabeth. So good.” Ever so slowly, her body relaxes and curves back down over his lap. Jughead continues to lightly massage her, but then two intrepid fingers dart down in between her thighs, sliding right into her sopping pussy. 

The pleasure is sharp, raw. It takes her by surprise how turned on she is from the spanking, from _ Jughead _ spanking her, and now that he’s playing with her, she doesn’t think it’ll take any time at all for him to reduce her to a writhing mass of orgasms.

Jughead now has three fingers in her and Betty, completely uninhibited, arches her back to give a good showing, rotating her hips in smaller and smaller circles as her inner muscles clamp down around the digits. Close, she's so close her entire body is working towards the precipice. He moves the forefinger of his left hand underneath her belly to brush over the hood of her clitoris.

The forefinger leaves but then returns, wetter as it rubs over her clit. Once, twice, tighter and tighter until all that tension finally snaps and waves upon waves of pleasure race through her nerve endings. Betty's entire body goes limp in his lap, save for the way her hips can't help but jerk and shake because Jughead is still working her through her orgasm until every last drop is spent.

Finally, his hand is soft against her reddened butt cheek as he still her movements. “Good girl.”

She gasps, shuddering as something deep inside her mind gives way, gravity pulling at her until she was nuzzling her cheek against his calf.

She’s encouraged to get back up onto the bed, inhaling sharply as her pleasantly sore bottom makes contact with the mattress.

“You still doing okay?” Jughead asks her, carding a hand through her hair. 

Words are too much for Betty right now, but she nods dreamily. It’s amazing where she is right now, blessedly free of some of the things that typically weigh her mind down. She’s reeling from how liberating it was to show him what a good girl she is ; good, not perfect. There had been nothing ‘perfect’ about what she’d just done, and it’s the most wonderful feeling.

“Now you get to choose, how would you like to be fucked, Betty?” _ Every which way you know how, please and thank you. _

“I want that.” She points to the red ramp leaning against the wall. Jughead’s answering grin takes the edge off the overwhelming experience that was the spanking. The butterflies she feels in her chest are a lot like the ones she feels when they verbally spar. This is_ fun _.

“Here,” Jughead tells her, positioning the ramp on the bed. 

The foam device is not hard, but it is sturdy and takes her weight as she bends over it, her hips raised over the edge. Betty sighs and lets her legs fall open, bracing her forearms on either side of her head. The cuffs around each of her limbs are then secured to each one of the four posts of the bed, leaving her wide open for him.

Ready, waiting.

The whisper of his zipper goes straight to her clit. So does the sound of a foil wrapper tearing.

She bites her lip as Jughead kneels on the bed behind her and starts to slowly work his way in. His palm is a comforting weight on her upper back as she does her best to resist the urge to squeeze his cock and instead let him slide deeper. He doesn’t stop until he bottoms out and her eyelids flutter shut at the sensation of fullness. 

Gradually, he starts rocking his hips back and forth as she experimentally clamps down around his cock, moaning softly from the delicious slide of friction. Her mouth hangs open and her hands flex around the mattress topper, clutching them as Jughead snaps his hips against her bottom. 

Betty ceases to be quiet after that and she moves against him, groaning as the tension in her wounds ever tighter. Yes, this is what she needs, she thinks dimly. Jughead’s rhythm slows as he lowers himself until he's covering her back, brushing aside her hair to nip at the sensitive skin along the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

The kiss he drops onto her side-turned cheek is an unexpected moment of tenderness, but a much welcomed one. “_ Now _, Elizabeth, I want you to come again,” he murmurs against the sensitive whorl of her ear, his words reverberating deep inside her. “Come around my cock.”

And then he straightens up, curling her hair around his fist, and tugs. Hard. Her core muscles engage as she holds herself up, back arched off the ramp as he starts to fuck her fast and deep.

It starts at her scalp, hundreds of tiny pinpricks of pleasure that race along her spine and nerve endings like dominos falling, muscles tensing into her orgasm, until finally the tension in her clit snaps and releases in waves around his cock. She feels it all the way down to her toes, which actually curl.

It’s not only the first full-body orgasm she’s ever had, it’s also the most elegant.

Behind her, Jughead’s hips stutter and then his weight half-collapses onto her, trapping her hips against the raised edge of the ramp. From her spot, head pressing against the mattress, Betty can see his forearms shake as he attempts to hold the rest of his weight off her. 

“It’s okay, Juggie,” she mumbles, patting his arm, encouraging him to rest against her. They just went through a very intense experience together, and it further endears him to her when he softly kisses her back and then rests his forehead against her shoulder, the harsh saw of his breath warm against her skin.

* * *

Afterwards, Jughead undoes her binds and unbuckles the cuffs, leaving them on the bed next to the ramp, and holds her close. Betty practically sits in his lap, still naked, as he rubs her back and occasionally pets her hair. Curled up in the warmth of his embrace, she feels soft, and doesn't mind nuzzling her cheek into the space between his neck and shoulder. She doesn't have the faintest idea where they go after this, what will happen in their tiny office at work, but the aftercare is amazing.

His Adam's apple bobs in front of her as he clears his throat. “Can I...may I go home with you tonight?” Jughead asks.

Betty goes with her gut instinct. “Sure. I’d like that.”

It’s strange how normal it all feels, albeit novel. The mundane act of getting into bed together in their pajamas (sweats, in Jughead’s case), faces washed and teeth freshly brushed. They curl around each other under her floral blue duvet like it's the most natural thing in the world. She's still not sure where they go after this, but for once, she's willing to wait to find out.

“'Night, Betts.”

“Sweet dreams, Juggie.”

**Author's Note:**

> I once started a kink club series in a different fandom but it never did end up going anywhere. Good thing I kept what I wrote because I found the perfect ship and time to repurpose it!
> 
> Note about the 'ramp' used in chapter 4, try googling (in a safe place and on a safe laptop) 'Liberator ramp'. The images there should give you a clear picture of what it is and how it's used.


End file.
